


Death Takes Time For Those Lucky Few

by Unicorn24601



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Heavy Overtones of Death, I promise it has a happy ending, M/M, No Detailed Descriptions of Death, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Personification of Death, Poetic Description of Going to the Afterlife, Temporary Amnesia, VERY brief anti-Semitic language, Very Brief Mentions of the Avengers, he's Death so what else are you expecting, very brief homophobic language, very brief mentions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unicorn24601/pseuds/Unicorn24601
Summary: Death is not supposed to have feelings. He doesn't remember being human, and he doesn’t have time for emotions. He has a job, an important job. Guiding souls to their afterlife is no fool’s errand. But, of course it can’t be that simple.As soon as the man starts showing up, never staying long enough to move on to his afterlife, Death is smitten. Emotions he doesn’t remember, from a life he forgot he had, reappear faster than he can keep up with.Who is this man? Why does he love him so deeply? Why is his memory so deeply rooted in his eyes?And why won’t he die?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 11
Kudos: 82





	Death Takes Time For Those Lucky Few

**Author's Note:**

> As described in some of the tags, this story does have a few heavy themes. Because of this, I want to give a few warnings. Please read!
> 
> The biggest theme is death and moving on to the afterlife. However, I want to make it clear that there are no explicit descriptions of people dying.
> 
> There is a brief memory where there is a use of homophobic and anti-Semitic slurs and hate speech. This does take place in the ’40s, but that does not excuse this language. If you need more details, a description has been added to the endnote.
> 
> There are some implied comments about suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts, and suicide attempts in a couple of places. There are no explicit details of suicide attempts nor is there a long discussion on these topics. There is more information in the endnote about the specifics. 
> 
> If you find any of these topics upsetting or triggering, please stay safe and don’t read it. While I have tried to give explicit details about it in advance, I do not want to accidentally trigger anybody. I would rather you not read over disrupting your mental health.
> 
> Now, I had two amazing beta’s:  
> The first helped me figure out this story and is the entire reason that there is a happy ending (so thank her for that). She helped me a lot with figuring out details and plotlines, as well as some of the descriptions. Really she just helped to make this all sound more cohesive and really helped me finish it. She’s amazing, and looking to get more into beta’ing, so hit her up! Thank you theotherWinterSoldier!
> 
> The second is always my go-to editor, and she always helps me when I’m writing (even though Stucky isn’t her main ship). Honestly, she’s a blessing. I would be a terrible writer without her. Thank you mello_yellow!

People think that dying is like cutting a string that is stretched into tension. A quick snip of scissors, moving a soul from life to death. A fast transition. A sudden switch. For some, that is what happens.

For some people, though, death is like cutting through a rope. But, the rope is thick and made of tough material, and all you have is a butter knife. Every time a strand is cut, it seems almost as if the rope will be alright since the damaged part of the rope has been removed.

Death has watched it happen before and will watch it again. He waits on the other side. Patient. Maybe this time it will stick. Maybe this bout will drag it’s victim down like a shark pulling down its prey.

But this one. This one doesn’t seem capable of letting fate truly stick. Every time he seems close, Death holds out a hand in greeting. But, every time, he turns away. He ignores _Death_.

His face is square, hiding hints of caramel that Death can only faintly remember the taste of. When he gets close, his body slowly appearing before Death once more, his jaw is always firm. Resolved. _Defiant_. A sharp protest looking ready on his lips. Then, a smug grin will appear. The man will step backwards, disappearing from Death in a fog laced with opposition and superiority.

Death is smitten.

The fact is, guiding the souls of the dead is a somber existence. The walk, from one light into another, is typically filled with morose conversation. People don’t know they're dead. They’re confused and want answers. They want to go back. Death is stuck guiding them, not merely from one plane to the next, but also from one understanding to another. Some take it better than others.

But, this man. With his eyes, the color of charcoal Death doesn’t remember holding. He carries the surety of a man certain that they haven’t died, sure they had more greatness to come. Does he know he can’t die? How he fights Death on Death’s own battlefield? 

His presence is filled with the softness of a mother wishing only kindness for her children left behind her. His lips hold the smirk of a temptress, certain she can convince you to do as she pleases. At the same time, his eyes hold the light of childishness, joyful and humorous and light. Carefree. 

The first time that the man stays for more than a few seconds, Death is quick to cry out for him. Who is this man who so easily tempts fate?

“Please,” he begs, “Hear me calling for your name!”

There is no answer, only a smirk and tousled hair and soft eyes.

There is the strangest feeling, however, accompanied by that smile. As if a gut reaction is being dragged from the very depths of Death’s soul. An urge to smile back, to reach out and join in. After thinking for a long time, Death realizes it's a memory.

How he has a memory of the man's smile, Death is unsure.

* * *

Death often feels alone. Outcast. Drowning in a sea of solitary confinement, afraid of the blank space he once found comforting. The only break he gets from his loneliness is the constant flow of souls that he guides from one light to the other.

There is no easy way to describe his home. The space is open, like walking through a field with plenty of open space and sunshine. It’s vast and never-ending. It can change at the flip of a hat.

Every person has a different view, needing something different from the path they must follow towards their afterlife. Sometimes Death guides souls along a rocky trail set atop a steep cliff, watching the waves crash below them. Other times, they walk through an empty street that, while abandoned except them, never seems apocalyptic. Rarely, Death will walk with those along a walkway simply made of glass. It should be scary, not knowing what lies beneath them other than glass, but it is not. Instead, it is peaceful. Light.

On this particular occasion, he is spending time with a man named Koda. He is particularly wise for someone so young, as he is only in his twenties. Koda has been visiting for a few hours, but Death knows it is not quite his time yet and he must soon send Koda back.

When his curiosity gets the better of him Death finally asks, “What makes you go back? What keeps you away from your afterlife?”

Koda looks at him, assessingly, his brows furrowed on his forehead. Death isn’t sure he likes being watched like that.

“I don’t know. It’s kind of like… like being caught in an undertow. I want to get to the shore, I want to go to my afterlife, but I can’t. Something is pulling me, dragging me back, and I can’t continue on until I get past.”

Death hums softly.

“And do you know what it is? This undertow in your living life?” Death continues.

“No,” Koda says slowly, contemplative. “It just feels important. Unfinished.”

Death nods thoughtfully.

“So,” Koda starts abruptly. “How did you end up as Death? Or were you always... you know.” He finishes the question off with a gesture towards Death’s figure.

“No,” Death starts slowly, “I wasn’t always Death.”

After he pauses and doesn’t keep talking, Koda continues. “So? Who were you?”

“I don’t--” Death freezes for a moment, grasping for any straw he could possibly find hiding in his brain. Any memory, any _sign_ , of who he was.

Death remembers an angular face, a woman's, soft in her affection for him. He remembers a hand holding his. He remembers eyes, so similar to the ones of the man who visits him, gazing at him with intensity the strength of the sun. He doesn’t remember the sun until he remembers these eyes. But, now he remembers feeling love. Love like an ocean. Love like bread baking. Love that fills and grows and expands and bursts from someone’s chest, like a balloon popping.

Then, he remembers angry faces staring down at him. Hate fills their eyes. Disgust. He remembers fists and cruel words. He remembers bruises and bleeding and hitting the ground. Those memories are terrifying, but he knows instantly that he would take a thousand of those memories just for one more of the man he now remembers loving in life.

“I don’t know.”

* * *

The man comes back, again and again. Just standing for a few minutes before disappearing once more. Whenever he appears, Death watches his face. His expressions. His body language. Who is he?

Why is he so important to me?

As he continues to appear, Death has _memories_. Sometimes they are brief, fleeting. Others are more detailed, more layered. The more he remembers, the more his pieces are connected to the man who can’t let death catch him.

He walks his newest soul down a rainforest pathway. Her name is Jinja, an elderly woman who was a leader to her tribe for many years and a very wise woman. She asks him questions instead of the other way around, which catches him off guard.

“Have you ever loved someone?” The question is unexpected, and Death isn’t sure he is ready to answer. His memories are incomplete. But, she deserves the truth.

“Yes.” It’s hesitant, uncertain.

She nods. “I had a love, once. A long time ago. Her name was Maaza.” She ponders for a moment. “We were not meant to be as we had thought at the beginning.”

Death cocks his head, gazing nonjudgmentally at her. “Why is that?”

“Ah, the secrets of the heart, I suppose. She did not understand me as I did her. And I did not seek her out when she needed me to find her.”

Death ponders that, thinking about the man. About how he keeps coming back. About how Death keeps _waiting_ , trying to understand.

“Did you never love another?” He asks after some time.

She gives him a knowing smile. “No, I found love with my people. And that was enough to fill my heart.”

When it is finally time for her to step through, moving on to a place where hopefully her people wait for her, Death watches. He wishes she didn’t have to leave so soon. Maybe she could have helped him find more answers.

* * *

At first, it’s subtle. Unnoticeable changes, faint to the eye. The unkillable man is _different_ , though. Where once was a joyful twinkle in his eye is gone. The confidence disappears from his gait. Confusion replaces the spots where kindness glinted brightest. Unlike how the man had previously recognized Death, he now seems disorientated and uncertain, shocked by Death’s face as if the man thinks he is dreaming.

For the first time, Death feels fear. He is afraid for this man, and he isn’t sure why. Every time he reappears, Death's fear grips stronger and stronger until it’s difficult to breathe. That is a familiar feeling Death wishes he didn’t remember.

Each time the man appears, however, it is difficult for Death to recognize how he died. Usually, Death can recognize the small signs of what caused a person to make their way to him. A hue leftover from frostbite, scars in fatal places, limbs that seem ethereal in an unreal way. 

This man… he just seems _wrong_. There is no way of pinpointing why he’s so off, though Death can certainly pin certain injuries that guided him towards the gates. However, nothing is clear. It’s as if a haze covers the man’s body, unclear and fuzzy in a way that Death has never had to witness before.

Sometimes the man is in pain, others he seems far off in his mind. The worst times, though, are when his mouth is open in a scream. Death sees this face every moment of his day, the horror sticking to his bones like gum does to a toddler's pigtail.

The man appears three times more often than before. Sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. However, the more he appears before Death, the less Death recognizes him. He is not the same man that he was before.

And Death is afraid. 

* * *

The first time the man stays for more than a day, Death is even more confused than he can remember ever having been before. For one, unlike before, there is finally a pathway for them to walk down. It’s a dirt pathway in a field filled with flowers, the moon risen and stars glittering in the night sky. Despite it being night time, it is still bright enough for them to clearly see each other.

“Hello,” Death greets, “What is your name?” It’s a familiar question, a habit repeated for every soul that passes through. However, after the number of encounters they have had, Death is used to being ignored by this man.

The man looks blank. “I don’t understand.”

Death startles, shocked that he could finally _speak_ to the man. He had long ago resigned himself to never getting a response. Then, when the words finally process, he frowns. “You don’t know your name? Then what can I call you?”

That gets an immediate answer.

“I am the Asset.” The man’s, the _Asset’s_ , face stutters for a moment. It’s nearly indecipherable, only noticeable by someone as practiced as Death is. Death has had to train himself to read faces, to recognize the small glimpses of emotion from others. To read others and prepare how to react. His face? It gives the briefest flash of heart numbing terror.

But otherwise? He is blank. There is no discernable emotion, like watching a mannequin take his place. Any regular person would be unable to see any sign of life, any sign of feelings.

It’s the most horrible thing Death has ever witnessed.

“Hello, Asset, I am Death.” As he has gotten more memories, Death has begun to question if this a true statement. However, he has no other information to prove otherwise. Therefore, for now, he continues to be Death. “Do you remember me?”

The Asset pauses, watching Death cautiously. “Should I?”

“Probably not,” Death shrugs. The Asset doesn’t respond to this. After a pause, Death continues. “Tell me about yourself.”

“I am the Asset, the Fist of Hydra. My codename is the Winter Soldier. I am an expert marksman and assassin. My handlers have trained me in--”

Death cuts him off abruptly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t understand,” the Asset repeats. His head tilts in confusion.

“Tell me who you are, as a person. What do you do when you’re bored? What books could you read over and over and never be bored of? What dances do you know every step to, that you've practiced to perfection?”

The Asset pauses and seems to be thinking. Then, though, the blankness from before creeps back into his features. It’s almost as if it’s a defense, looking blank and emotionless and empty.

“I don’t know.”

Death is baffled. No one has ever not had an answer to these questions. Everyone knows _something_ , has at least one answer. What happened to this man? And why does Death’s heart feel like it’s been ripped and shredded by the look on this man’s face? He tries for a new tactic, something that anyone would have an answer to.

“Who loves you more than anyone else? Who wouldn’t forget you as long as they were alive?”

There is no pause this time.

“Steve.” As soon as he answers, the Asset looks confused, baffled by his own response and the speed at which he spoke it. Then, the terror from before returns once more before switching again to that gut-clenching vacant expression.

If Death’s heart was being torn apart before, he doesn’t know what it is doing now. It feels as if it has simultaneously fallen to the depths of the Earth as well as ascending to the heavens. He is in hellfire, he is in paradise. He feels pain like that of being tortured, but also like he has found salvation like feeling the sun warm your face and your soul. It feels like everything is burning and crashing and shattering around his feet.

“Tell me about... Steve.” Saying the name is like being shot in the gut, and Death doesn’t understand why.

The Asset, in response, looks panicked again. His mouth gapes and his eyes widen, all the color leaving his face a ghostly white. His hands raise to his hair, tugging hard. “I don’t… remember. I don't _remember_. Please don’t hurt me, I promise I don’t remember!”

Worried for the man’s well being, Death pulls him forward into his arms, then deciding to take it a step further, tugs the man with him towards the ground. There, he can support both himself and the man from falling over.

“Shh,” he soothes, “I’ve got you. It’s okay. _Breathe_.”

The Asset whimpers softly, tucking himself under Death’s chin. In slow movements, Death gently strokes his arms. Together, on the ground, Death helps the Asset breathe. For some reason it feels like a familiar position. Death distantly wonders if it has any relation to when he remembered being unable to breathe.

“I’m not here to hurt you. _Ever_. No matter what you tell me, no matter what you remember, or don’t. I will _never_ hurt you.”

Slowly, the Asset’s body relaxes. Only when he is calm in Death’s tender embrace does he speak. “Steve was both perfection and stupidity in one small body.”

Death hums, fighting a chuckle, before tightening his grip. He doesn’t want the Asset to think he’s laughing _at_ him, doesn’t want him to stop telling Death about his Steve. 

“Steve looked at me like he saw the future, like he knew I would be amazing. He stood up for people the way others breathed, easily and steadily and without pause.”

Death smiles, resting his head on the Assets. “He sounds nice. Tell me more?”

So the Asset did.

* * *

They lose track of time. The Asset shares every detail, even the most seemingly insignificant ones. While he talks about Steve, he begins to remember more and more of himself. Then, he shares those parts of his past with Death as well. Death doesn’t know how long they spent together, but he cherishes the time. He knows, though, that it has been a long time. Its possible years have passed. He has no way of knowing.

After the Asset finishes telling all of his stories, though, Death finally has the courage to ask him if he was ready to go towards the second light. The light everyone moved to in the end. The light that means he will see him no longer. The Asset -- Death is told his real name is actually Bucky -- stares at him uneasily and shifts from one foot to the other.

“I don’t think… I’m supposed to.” He gives a brief pause. “Not yet.”

When he finally does leave, disappearing into the mist like so many times before, Bucky had shared every detail he had remembered of his life. Death kept this information close to his heart, remembering every aspect. It fits so easily into his brain that he begins to question whether he had heard the stories once before.

He feels like a dragon, hoarding the bits of information to himself like gold. Every piece is as precious as the last. They’re sacred commodities, their worth higher than that of the most expensive of jewels. He plays them over and over again, like a movie reel in his brain. He won’t fail, he won’t forget again.

_Again_?

Towards the end, after the man had shared everything he remembered of his life, he seemed more like the personality he had when he first started appearing before Death. Joking and witty and full of himself. Death wishes he had gotten more time with him like that.

But, he had left.

After the Asset (Bucky!) had disappeared fully into the mist, Death went about his business. He had a job to do. He guides the souls and answers questions and gives wisdom. In the back of his mind, the stories tug at his subconscious. Persistent, like a dog with a bone. While he walks, between one end of the path and the other, he thinks of the things Bucky had shared with him. 

The stories feel too familiar. Too ingrained into his brain. Too much like _memories_.

When Bucky finally comes back again, Death almost cries from joy. He wants to learn even more about the man. He wants to know what every expression means, every scar. He wants to know his deepest secrets and desires.

This time, they are standing on a beach. It’s sunny and the water glitters next to them, picturesque and calming. Death has never had someone’s pathway change, though. It is unsettling in an unrecognizable way. However, he ignores the feeling in favor of turning his gaze once more to Bucky.

“Hello!” He grins, expecting a smile in return. Instead, he gets a frown and Bucky’s face tightens. No, not Bucky. This is the Asset once more.

He looks… guarded. Unsure. _Afraid_.

Why does he look afraid? He shouldn’t be afraid of Death! Doesn’t he remember the last time they had met? Hadn’t he missed him?

“Bucky?” Death asks tentatively, an ominous feeling racing through his chest. He prays for a miracle he knows he won’t see, looking for any sign of recognition.

The Asset freezes, looking like a defensive snake coiling for an attack. His walls rise almost like falling asleep, suddenly and unconsciously.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

That isn’t an easy answer. “You are, Buck.”

Where did that nickname come from?

For a minute, they watched each other. Then, the Asset’s eyes flicked down and to the left, before glancing back at Death.

“I know you,” he says flatly. It isn’t a question, but it doesn’t sound like a very sure statement either.

“Yes,” Death responds easily. “You’re my friend.”

The Asset -- ‘ _Bucky_ ,’ his mind screams -- doesn’t say anything.

“Let me tell you a story. Your mother’s name was Winifred. You used to put newspapers in Steve’s shoes.”

He looks contemplative, looking up and down Death’s body as if he might find answers hidden under his clothing. Finally, he asks slowly, “What else do you know about me?”

“So much, Buck. So much.”

* * *

The Asset doesn’t seem to remember any of the stories Death told him, even though he told them to Death first. It’s as if he can’t keep them where he goes back to in life. Halfway through retelling his stories back to him, however, Death realizes that he has added stories that the Asset had never told him last time.  
  
When he finally finishes all of the stories he remembers, giving every single detail, the Asset sits there for a long time. He doesn’t look at Death nor does he speak. He just sits. Thinking.

Finally, he speaks very softly. He sounds like a child that has been severely chastised. “I don’t know why but… I like it when you call me Bucky. Will you keep doing that?”

He sounds so _unsure_ , and Death is afraid to break their tender moment. “Whatever makes you happy Bucky.”

“I’m...” Bucky twists his fingers together, shifting closer to Death. “I think I’m tired now. Can we just sleep for a little bit?”

Death smiles, trying to look reassuring while Bucky seems so unsure of himself. “Of course we can, Buck. You wanna lay down with me?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Together, they settle on the floor. There aren’t any pillows or blankets, but the sand is soft and sun-warmed. They lay on their sides and Bucky faces Death. His eyes are slowly drifting closed, but he is clearly fighting the urge to shut them completely and drift away.

“You won’t leave me, will you?” It’s so miserable sounding, Death is reminded of a child who’s been left forgotten without a home. Death’s heart tears once more. When will he stop hurting for this man?

“No, I won’t leave Buck. Promise.”

Bucky still looks unsure, so Death raises his hand to cup his face gently.

“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, Buck.”

_Why does that feel so familiar?_

The line seems to do the trick and Bucky’s eyes flutter shut. His face relaxes and his body loosens itself. Just as he is about to fall deeply, he whispers quietly, nearly too soft for Death to hear.

“I missed you, Steve.”

* * *

There is a pattern. Bucky disappears for a few weeks at a time but never more than a couple of months. Then, he appears once again, each time with a different pathway. Death tries to keep track of how long he stays with him but there is no way of knowing. All he can say for certain is that it is a long time, longer than anyone else has.

The longer that Bucky stays, though, the more Death remembers. He remembers living in a big city -- New York! -- and being extremely poor. He remembers his mother who was a nurse and his father who died before he was born.

He remembers being sick all of the time. He remembers coughing so hard his rib crackled. He remembers feeling like he was burning up, but he also remembers feeling freezing. He remembers thinking he was gonna die, preparing himself to never see his thirtieth birthday.

But, more than anything, he remembers Bucky. 

Most of the stories he had already heard from Bucky. He remembered growing up together. He had been fascinated by how Bucky had fallen for Steve -- him? -- and how they always stuck together. Now, though, the pieces finally fall together into a complete picture.

Now, he knows that the Asset’s real name wasn’t _just_ Bucky. It’s James Buchanan Barnes. He also remembers how much Bucky had hated being called James.

He remembers them causing chaos together as kids. Climbing trees (when his asthma wasn’t too bad) and getting in trouble in class. He remembers playing games and doing homework. He remembers jokes and sleepovers and hangouts and swimming and --

And he remembers falling in love. He remembers the first time he had that shwoopy thing happen in his chest. How his heart had quickened when he looked at Bucky too long. He remembers the depth of devotion he had for every tiny detail of Bucky Barnes.

As time goes on, he remembers so _much_. Every time that Bucky comes back, he remembers how much he loves him and how much Bucky loved him.

Like when they had their first kiss, an accident because he had toppled over and landed on top of Bucky when they were thirteen. They had been trying to catch a fish in the ocean, and Bucky was doing decently but he was very bad at it. When he had finally got something to start pulling on his rod, after Bucky had set it up for him, he had tipped over and nearly lost a grip on the pole. He fell right into Bucky’s lap, mouth pressed to mouth, when he had _moaned_. When he had frantically scrambled back, panicking with a bright blush on his cheeks, Bucky had sat there dazedly. Then, in a movement too quick for him to stop, Bucky grabbed his wrist and dragged him back. They kissed for an hour that night, hidden by the night sky and unafraid despite the crime they were committing.

Who had decided that love -- love as strong as gravity’s pull -- could be illegal anyway? Every kiss after -- every touch, every soft word, every noise -- proved how much they loved each other every day. They never had been that inclined to follow the rules.

He remembers years of them being together, loving each other deeply and truly and without restraint, until they were inseparable. Even when they were sad, even when they were sick, even when his mom had died. Everything they lived through made them stronger. Together. There was no way to separate them. Nothing that could last, that is.

But, no matter how much Death retells their stories, whenever Bucky comes back he has forgotten. Death doesn’t mind reminding him. He repeats himself, again and again. He is happy to remind Bucky of how much he adores him. Death can’t believe he ever forgot how much he loves Bucky Barnes.

If only he could remember the _rest_.

Or how he ended up here.

* * *

One day, Death stops remembering. Nothing new comes, only what’s already there.

The memories cut off abruptly, just before his 20th birthday. He remembers living with Bucky in their apartment by the docks. He had gotten a job at the grocer and Bucky was still picking up jobs where he could. He had just gotten over a bout of pneumonia, and Bucky was taking him to celebrate later that night. He remembers getting ready and leaving the apartment-- and then there is nothing.

Death finds this alarming, this cut off from the rest of his memories. But, he’s afraid to ask Bucky about it.

What will Bucky tell him? Will he even remember anything?

_Does he really want to remember?_

Bucky himself isn’t entirely stable, anyways, though. Some visits are better than others, but some days he is less like himself and more like the Asset.

On one particularly bad visit, Bucky seems even less like himself than ever before. He won’t talk, refusing to even make eye contact with Death. He cowers into himself, holding his body in a way that looks hauntingly like a skittish animal that’s been beaten one too many times.

“Bucky,” Death begs. He can barely see the man as heavy rain pours down around them. The Sky is dark and bleak, a daunting feeling in the air and an unnerving feeling in Death’s heart. “Please remember.”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He doesn’t look up, keeping his gaze over Death’s right shoulder. He’s shaking softly, every muscle strained and tight. There is no expression on his face, just a terrifying blankness.

That, that blankness, is how Death can always tell that he is currently the Asset. Bucky is full of life and emotion. He laughs with his whole chest, lighting up like turning on a light in a dark room late at night. When he tells stories, he uses his entire body, waving his hands dramatically for the fullest effect. When he cries it comes deep from his chest, heaving and wreaked and full, pulling out the depth of his humanity.

The Asset is _not_ Bucky Barnes.

Concerned, Death takes a step closer with a hand raised out towards Bucky. As he steps again, Bucky flinches violently. Then he _collapses_ , dropping to his knees like a bag of rocks. He’s shaking and cowering at Death’s feet, and it makes him nauseous looking at Bucky like that.

“It’s alright, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” Making cooing noises, Death immediately drops next to him. When Death cups Bucky’s cheek in the palm of his hand, Bucky flinches again. Then, losing all his tension, Bucky droops into Death’s palm, nuzzling at his fingers.

“There we go,” Death murmurs, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. Glacially slow, he wraps his arms around Bucky and pulls him into his chest.

Curled up on the ground, Death tenderly strokes Bucky’s back until his breathing is deep and even once more. Distantly, Death notes that the ground isn’t muddy but soft, despite the heavy rain. His shaking gradually stops, leaving Bucky limp in Death’s arms.

The encounter reminds him of a kitten they had rescued when they were kids. Some boys had been beating up on it, torturing the poor thing. Bucky had beat them to a pulp while Death had grabbed the kitten and cradled it to his chest.

“My poor boy, what have they done to you?” Death asks tenderly, curling a strand of hair around his fingertip. As expected, he gets no response to his question. After a minute, hating the silence, he asks, “Would you like to hear a story?”

Bucky nods eagerly, so Death starts his retelling once more. Around them, the rain softens, turning to a soft drizzle. It is gentle and warm. Peaceful.

Bucky is sure to forget again, but Steve could remember enough for both of them, and he would always remind Bucky of what he had forgotten.

* * *

This time… This time is different. Bucky remembers but--

“Steve, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bucky had wrapped his arms around Death as soon as he had fully appeared, for once tugging Death into _Bucky’s_ chest. “Please, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t! I love you, please don’t leave me again.”

He was openly sobbing at this point, and Death didn’t think he had ever seen Bucky cry like this before. He looked so forlorn, so torn. Why did he look so devastated?

Around them, shadows creep. There are trees standing higher than skyscrapers, packed together and condensed with bushes and ivy and thorns. It matches the horror that glints in Bucky’s eyes and that creeps in Death’s mind. How can the environment always so easily match Bucky’s emotions? It’s confusing and perturbing.

“Steve isn’t here, Bucky. Who are you talking to?” Death is almost afraid of the answer, afraid of the confirmation he is sure is coming.

Bucky jolts, pulling back only to stare into Death’s eyes. He looks bewildered.

“I’m talking to _you_.” He gapes. “ _You’re_ Steve, don’t you know your own name?”

Death takes a moment to recognize the irony in the question. How long ago had it been when he had said the same thing to the Asset?

“I--” Death doesn’t know what to say. It made sense and he had been expecting it. After all that Bucky had told him about his Steve, Death had assumed it was probably him. But, he had never known for sure.

Before he could connect the name -- _his_ name -- to what he had been told, Bucky was sobbing once again.

“I tried, Stevie, I tried so hard!” He was gasping, trying to get the words out in desperation. “But I was, I was so sad and alone, and they broke me, Steve. I’m _broken_. They broke me and I-- I--”

“You what, Buck?” Death held his breath, a bad feeling in his gut.

“I killed them,” The floodgates open once again, tears streaking down his face. “So many innocent people, Steve. _I_ did it. I did it, I did, but I didn’t _mean to_. Please, you have to believe me, Stevie, I swear it. I didn’t want to, I promise!”

Death -- Steve? -- could tell that Bucky was spiraling. He had to calm him down before he completely shattered into pieces.

“Bucky. _Buck_!” Death shook him firmly, gazing into his eyes. “Look at me, Buck. _Look_ at me.”

Bucky looks up, his eyes red and puffy. Tears had left a track down his face, and his cheeks were splotchy. He looks miserable and heartbroken. Steve’s heart tugs at the pain spread all over his features.

“Bucky, I need you to tell me what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t know if I can, Steve.” Bucky’s face crumples. “It hurt so _bad_.”

Death’s stomach drops. “ _What_ hurt, Buck? What did they do?”

A shuddery breath is dragged into Bucky’s lungs. He tenses his shoulders, before relaxing into Death’s grip once more. He was… preparing himself. Preparing himself to break Death’s heart with whatever he told him.

“Hydra.”

It was ominous, whatever that word meant. It’s a bad omen, waiting in the dark of his mind and scratching to get out.

“What is Hydra, Buck?” He asks carefully.

“They’re kinda like Nazis but more extreme. They take it to a whole new level, Steve. They’re true evil.” Bucky looks up at him again, gauging his reaction. At the mention of Nazi’s, Steve was already tense and slightly disturbed. “They, uh… They had this plan, to take over the world I guess? But they weren’t counting on me and Peggy.”

Bucky gets a soft cocky grin on his face then snorts. “You woulda loved Peggy, she was so stubborn and hardheaded. You guys would’ve gotten along swell. Anyways, she got this gig. Called herself ‘Captain America’. Never made sense to me, considering she was _British_ , but whatever. It didn’t start off great for her, but she rescued me and a buncha other soldiers so they got pretty fond of her real quick.”

“We were trying to stop the Nazi’s, Steve. But after I had already lost you?” Bucky sniffles.

“What happened?” Death pushes, not liking the direction this was going. Bucky didn’t put himself in danger, did he?

“I fell, Steve,” he whispers, tragic and forlorn. “I fell and _they_ found me. They kept me--tortured me for _years_. Until… Until I became something else. Something less than human. Their _weapon_.”

The last word is said heavily and leaves Bucky twitchy.

Death growls, clutching at Bucky tightly. “Is that why-- I mean, why you-- Is that why you kept coming here? Why you didn’t know who you were?”

“Yeah, Stevie,” Bucky grimaces, seeming like he wants to pull away in discomfort. Somberly, he continues. “They made me do terrible things, Steve. Terrible things to people who didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want to, I _swear_ I didn’t. I fought so hard against them, I promise you. But I did, Steve, I did terrible things.”

The tears have started again and Bucky looks desperate for Death to believe him. Putting him out of his misery, Death jumps in. “Bucky, that wasn’t you. That isn’t your fault.” Bucky clearly doesn’t believe him, looking miserable and hysterical. “Bucky! Did you fight them? Did you try to escape?” When Bucky nods stiffly, Death nods back. “Listen to me. You didn’t choose to do those things. It wasn’t your _choice_. No matter what they made you do, _they_ are to blame. _Not. You._ ”

Bucky finally collapses into Death, dragging them to the floor in his anguish. There, among the brambles and branches, Death tucks Bucky into him once more.

“Steve, I’m so _tired,_ ” he cries. He tucks his face into Death’s neck, gripping even tighter around Death’s shoulders. “It hurts so bad, all the time, and I don’t want to hurt anyone. I can’t do it anymore Steve, _please_.”

Once again, Bucky’s words have returned to sobs, indecipherable and impossible to understand. Death just clutches him tightly to his chest, letting his tears run like a broken faucet.

Death doesn’t know what to do. He has no idea how to help, how to protect Bucky from this excruciating pain. Was he coming back because-- because they were _killing_ him? Over and over again? And why was he here for such long periods of time?

What year was it for him in the living world?

Then, Death feels horror replace every other emotion. Why had he shown up the first time? It couldn’t have been because of Hydra’s torture, Bucky had looked so normal and confident, the way he had in Death’s memories of him. He hadn’t started looking empty until after he had visited Death multiple times.

“Bucky,” he gently probes. “How did you get to me? The first time?”

Bucky’s breath hitches. “Please don’t make me tell you. I’m sorry, Steve, I was just so alone and I missed you so much. Please, Steve, I’m so sorry. I just wanted to see you again.”

Death’s ears were ringing faintly, his ears whooshing like when he was partially deaf when he was alive. Cold dread dragged through his veins.

“Bucky, what did you do?”

“I uh--” He clears his throat, his throat sounding scratchy and raw. “I got into this fight with Mueller. You remember him, right? He was such an asshole, and I was so _angry_. I figured, if he killed me, then my ma wouldn’t have to be disappointed in me. That way, it wasn’t _my_ fault I was dead.”

“Oh Buck,” Death breathes, his stomach dropping to the bottom of the earth. He pulls Bucky’s head back to his neck, stroking gently at his hair. “You were so sad, weren’t you? I’m sorry you were so alone, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“I was so desperate,” Bucky sniffles, “I’m not as strong as you.”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that, Bucky,” Death growls. His tone warns Bucky not to try and fight him on this. “Look at how far you’ve come, how much you have _survived_. You are brave and kind, and you’ve fought through so much pain just to keep going.”

Bucky’s eyes widen, deep pools of gray and blue swallowing Death in like the night sky above them, dark and glittering and mysterious.

How _dare_ anyone hurt him like this. He wants to burn them to the ground.

“You are not _weak_. You are not _bad_. You are not _evil_.” There is vehemence in his words, confidence in every syllable. “You are Bucky, the love of my life, and I would die for you.”

Bucky’s face pales, expression going slack and mouth tightening in displeasure.

“What?” Death questions. “What’s that face for?”

“Because you already did.” Bucky stutters. “You lost your life defending me. I can’t let you do that again, Steve. Never again, I can't do it again, please.”

Suddenly, it comes flooding back.

 _‘What are you gonna do, faggot? Beat us up? Defend your stupid fucking boyfriend? Haven’t you heard, you fairy? Hitler is coming to clean the Earth of Jews like_ him _.’ The man speaks with his teeth, malicious intent clear in every word he uses. His friends guffaw behind him, huge and threatening._

_“Don’t talk about him like that!” Steve growls. His body shakes with fury, and he feels his veins burn with contempt._

_“Aww,” the man mocks with a fake pout, “What’s the tiny little baby gonna do? Bite me?”_

_His friends continue to laugh._

_“Maybe we should put your fairy boyfriend out of his misery now, make Hitler’s job easier. Plus, two for one deal.” His buddies snicker and finally, he snarls. “Grab him!”_

_When the men turn around to move towards Bucky, Steve darts into action. He kicks the leader in the balls with all his might. Then Steve leaps onto his back. Biting into the guy’s neck as hard as possible, Steve doesn’t let go even when the guy starts thrashing._

_When he is finally thrown to the ground, Steve yells, “Run Buck, get outta here! Go get help!”_

_“No, not without you!” Bucky fires back._

_When one of the goons turns back towards Bucky, Steve finally panics. “Run," he screams, imbuing every ounce of fear and force he can into the word. He needs Bucky to run. The only thing he is really afraid of is them catching Bucky._

_When Bucky finally realizes he can’t do anything more to help, he darts around the corner. Distantly, Steve could hear him yelling at someone to call the police. Relieved, Steve grins. Bucky is safe. It would all be fine as long as Bucky is safe._

_“Look at you guys, big bad Nazi shitheads. Are you proud of yourselves, beating up a coupla fairies?” He forces as much smugness as he could into his voice, shooting a cocky smirk up at them._

_“You’re gonna regret that,” the man growls._

_Steve doesn’t remember the beating itself, as it becomes a distant haze of pain and terror. He only comes back to awareness when Bucky is hovering over him._

_“Steve, you dumb punk, what did you do?” Bucky’s voice is tight, strained, full of panic and fear._

_“Don’t worry Buck, I had ‘em on the ropes.” He gives a lopsided smile. God, everything hurts. “I love you Buck, more than anyone else. I won’t ever forget you, alive_ or _dead.”_

_“Please, Steve,” Bucky begged. “I love you, more than anything. Please don’t leave me, I love you so mu--”_

He--

How did Steve--

_That’s how he died?_

Finally snapping out of his haze, Steve looks at Bucky again. Why did everything feel different suddenly? Why did that memory click everything into place? Everything feels real, everything feels… _more_.

Bucky’s eyes were the color of smoke from a cigarette, haunting and fleeting and magical. His hair is the color of chocolate, the fancy kind that he used to steal for Steve on Valentine’s day. His skin is soft, like when he would get sheets fresh from drying in the sun and bundle Steve up in the middle of the winter.

Bucky looked like every dream Steve had ever had, every good memory and good feeling rolled into one. He looked like coming home. He looked good the way that a book does to a librarian, full of depth and stories and emotions to feel.

Steve looked at Bucky and realized that every moment, every encounter before this, had been a preface. It had been building and building for this exact moment. Bucky was here, standing right in front of him. Perfect and whole and pure.

And Steve was finally here too. Steve was _Steve_ , and he had finally made it.

Wrapping his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, Steve pulled him into a kiss. It’s desperate and seeking, a million years of need condensed. Then, softening his pace, Steve pulls back to look his fill once more. Bucky is caught off guard, his lips red from how desperately Steve had kissed him.

“I will _never_ regret it, Buck. I never could have let you--” An unexpected sob comes out of Steve’s throat, shocking him. But, he needs to get the words out. Bucky has to understand. “I couldn’t let you die, Buck, you had so much more you were supposed to do.”

“Steve--”

“No, you _listen_ to me, James Buchanan Barnes.” His tears are coming stronger now, all his emotion racing to the surface. “I didn’t die for you because you are _weak_. You are so good, so strong, I always knew you were. Whatever happens, I want you to remember that. I love you _so fucking much_ , and I need you to know that you’re worth it. I know you’ve done terrible things, I know you’re hurting, I know you feel alone. But you are so much stronger than me in every way, and I need you to _keep going_. Even if it’s without me. You are meant to do good, to keep _being_ good, even if I can’t be there with you.”

There is no way to stop Steve’s tears at this point. Bucky and he are pressed as close as physically possible, both clutching to one another as a child does to its blanket. Steve presses kisses to Bucky’s face, covering as much space as possible.

He doesn’t know how long they stay there, Steve nestled in Bucky’s lap, legs wrapped tightly around his waist. The setting has changed around them, the trees growing softer in their vastness. The sun shines through their leaves in a kaleidoscope of green and yellow and white. It even feels as if there is more space between their trunks, more space and air and _freedom_.

“My sweet boy,” he finally murmurs, his voice bleeding with affection. He runs his fingers gently through Bucky’s hair. “What have they done to you?”

Bucky lets out a deep breath. “I gotta go back, Steve.”

“I know.” Steve smiles, soft and forlorn and endlessly proud all at once.

“I have to put an end to them,” Bucky adds, as if he really needed to clarify.

“I know,” Steve repeats.

“I might not see you again. Not for a long time, Stevie.”

Steve wants to cry at those words. He wants to scream and yell and fight against the inevitable. But, he also knows that’s exactly what it is. Inevitable.

“Well then, when you come back, make sure they’re burned to the ground, nothing left of them but ashes. A memory.”

As if in a comic twist of fate, Bucky slowly starts to disappear before Steve’s eyes. Most likely for the last time.

“Wait! Please, Steve--” His words are choked and afraid.

“I love you, Bucky. Do everything I always knew you could.” His words are firm, but the tone can barely cover how Steve is shaking as he speaks. “Be brave.”

“‘Til the end of the line, Steve,” Bucky promises, scrabbling for Steve’s hand one more time. They just barely brush fingers before he’s disappearing. Gone.

“‘Till the end of the line, Buck.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Steve finds himself back on the floor once more. As he gasps for breath, feeling like the asthmatic that he was when he first fell in love with Bucky.

He clutches his chest. He is alone again.

He’s alone.

* * *

_“You’re telling me I’m dead?” Steve deadpanned. “I don’t believe it.”_

_Death scoffs. “What do you mean? Not ethereal enough?”_

_Steve grins. “No, there’s a much easier answer. Bucky isn’t here.”_

_Death grimaces._

_“What’s that face supposed to mean?”_

_“Steve, you died before Bucky. You have to wait in your heaven without him. That’s how this works. He’ll get there eventually.”_

_“You mean he won’t be there?” Steve growled. “I thought I got whatever I wanted in heaven. I want Bucky!”_

_Death paused in his steps. “I cannot make a copy of a human soul. You must wait for him to die as well before you may be reunited. Don’t worry, he is sure to have a happy life, and you’ll see him again before you know it.”_

_When people hear this, many are finally reassured enough to move on. The relief that their loved ones are living on, happy, gives them the strength to make their peace. Steve, it would seem, is not like other people._

_“This is bullshit!” Steve shouted. “You can’t just leave me there for who knows how long without him! I want a refund!”_

_“You want a refund?” Death spluttered. “And, do tell, how would you like me to do that for you?”_

_Steve’s eyes narrowed coldly. “I will not leave, I will not go into that stupid light, if Bucky is not there. I will stay here and annoy you. For_ years _.”_

_Death was appalled. “You would stay here seventy years, just to annoy me, waiting for him to die.”_

_“Bucky is my_ everything _. I think of him when I first wake and before I go to sleep. I have memorized every part of him and I cherish every part of his soul, just as he cherishes mine and embraces every part of me. Why would I want anything less, even in death?” Death watched Steve, watched his face become that of concrete in its surety. “I will annoy you for every second that I am kept from him until you understand how fiercely I refuse to leave his side.”_

_Death’s mouth nearly dropped. This was not a typical reaction to someone knowing their loved one wasn’t coming yet. “You would give up the luxuries of heaven, all of the foods and the games and the gold, you would give up a lifetime of pleasures just for him?”_

_“I gave up my life for him, he might as well have my afterlife, too.”_

_“Well then you are a fool.” Death added, snarkily._

_Steve snorted. “So I’ve been told.”_

_“Well, you can’t stay here. I have a job, and the next soul can’t come through until you are gone. You’ll cause an upheaval of the entire afterlife system.” Death didn’t care if he sounded uptight. He refused to do a mountain of paperwork just because this particular soul refused to move on. Plus, Steve didn’t have to report to the Gods._

_“What can you do? I don’t move on, you can’t just boot me out. Right?”_

_Death grumbled._

_Suddenly, Steve’s face lit up. “What if I take your job?”_

_The question is so outrageous, so out of the blue, Death just ignores him completely._

_“Hey, haven’t you ever wanted a vacation?”_

_Death snorted. “After spending all my time with the dead? Who wouldn’t.”_

_Steve grinned, triumphant. “Perfect! Just have a nice century-long vacation, and I’ll do your job while you’re gone. Once Bucky comes through, you can come back and I’ll leave and go to my afterlife.”_

_“You’re joking.”_

_“I absolutely am not.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “I am not kidding, I’m not leaving without Bucky.”_

_Death sighs. What a strange human. So… strong-willed. Defiant._

_“If I were to agree to this, I would have to remove your memories. You can’t remember anyone else from your past, or else you could keep them from moving on to their afterlife.” He paused, letting that sink in. “You won’t remember anything until Bucky dies."_

_“Why the hell not,” Steve smirks. “I don’t have anything better to do.”_

* * *

Bucky was right. He was gone for a long time.

There are no clocks in Steve’s dimension, no way to tell the days from the weeks from the months. Steve has no idea how to count how long it’s been since he saw Bucky’s smile. How long since he got to hug Bucky. How long since he got to sit in Bucky’s lap.

Steve is selfish. He wants _everything_. He wants every second, every laugh, every single piece of Bucky Barnes. But, time stands still, while simultaneously speeding in the blink of an eye. Steve is selfish, and he is tired, and he wants Bucky.

However, Steve is still Death, even if it is temporary. He made a deal, one that he can’t back out of, and he must continue on. He can’t say how many souls he guides, can almost forget their faces immediately after they stepping into the light.

As patiently as he waits, though, Bucky doesn’t come.

For every new soul, Steve sees a new piece of Bucky in every single one.

Zaynab is a girl who’s fingers and lips were blue, shivering when she came into Steve’s sight. He asks her what made her happier than anything else in the world. She told Steve about her cat that she rescued, it’s fur the same shade as her last memory. A frozen forest, snowy and wintery and crystal. She reminds Steve of Bucky’s compassion for others, even animals.

Qasim is a man made of wrinkles and who hunches over in his old age. Steve wants to know what he was proudest of himself for. Qasim’s eyes twinkle with wisdom, and he speaks of standing up for those who have been oppressed. Of never stepping down, even when you are afraid. Qasim makes him think of Bucky’s willingness to fight. How he went back to where he knew it hurt to save those weaker than himself.

Isai is a teen thinner than Steve ever had been, all bones and sharp edges and pale skin. He is skittish, afraid even of Steve’s small stature. Gently, Steve asks the boy what made him feel his strongest even when he was at his weakest. In return, he is told stories of men and women from the boy’s fantasy books and science fiction games. Of exploring worlds that didn’t exist, full of inspiring tales that encouraged Isai to be just as strong. He speaks of being so afraid, being so broken and torn, that the only way he felt strong was when he didn’t have to be himself anymore.

It hurts to compare Bucky to Isai. The boy who saw too much and not enough all at once. What kind of life is that?

Steve looks at the lives of these people, their stories and memories and favorite things, and each piece has more meaning in his heart than the last. He’s reminded of his humanity. He is reminded of kindness and joy and peace. He is reminded of anger and frustration and discontentedness. He is reminded of fear and panic and concern for others.

He is reminded of love and passion and everything in between.

Maybe Steve had been inhuman for too long. Maybe he had forgotten what it was _like_ to be human. Maybe he had forgotten the intricacies of what experiencing emotion felt like. Maybe he had forgotten that, sometimes, life wasn’t good just because everything went right. Sometimes life was good just because _enough_ things had gone right.

But, Bucky had opened his eyes and given him new vision. _Better_ vision. Steve took in each story like a sponge. He expanded and grew and breathed anew. Finally, he understood everything about his life differently. Steve became wiser, in ways he never would have noticed before.

Where before he had been quick to anger, Steve learned that sometimes it hurt less to take more time thinking. How he had once ignored the true meaning behind one's words, taking them for face value, Steve taught himself to look deeper into what someone was really saying. Before, he had automatically thought that his morals were always bigger and better and more logical than others, willing to raise a fist before stopping to understand. Now, he recognized the complexity of life and learned to assess before standing his ground, even if he was in the right all along. Then, once he had all of the details, he could fight and snarl and defend his ground as passionately as necessary.

When Bucky finally did come back, what feels like centuries later, Steve's eyes are finally clear of the mist he had lived in when he was alive. Everything is clearer and brighter and lovelier. Including Bucky.

He watches Bucky appear slowly, drifting in to view gradually like how the sun rises along the horizon. Shapes and color and shades that have never been seen before, new to his eyes in ways he couldn’t have predicted.

This time, they’re in an apartment. _Their_ apartment. And Steve looks around, he is reminded of all the small details he had nearly forgotten. The broken clock on the mantelpiece that they always forgot to reset. Bucky’s shoes tucked under the bed. The photo of them and Steve’s mom tucked into the mirror by the sink. Simple signs of life, of living. Signs of their life, and love, together. 

“Bucky,” he sighs, giving him a tender look.

“Steve,” Bucky’s smile is tentative and cautious, a look Steve had never wanted to see on his face. “I missed you.”

Stepping forward, Steve pulls him into a bruising hug, full of every second of longing he had for Bucky while they were separated.

“Did you do it?” The question is barely a whisper, speaking life into a hope too easy to shatter. “Did you finish what you had to, Buck? Did you win?”

“Yeah, Steve.” Bucky’s tone is confident, a relief and a clear deep breath to Steve at the same time. “I burned them to the fucking ground, just like you knew I could. They will never be more than a memory ever again.”

Finally pulling back, Steve gazes at him softly. Tucking a piece of his hair behind Bucky’s head, he finally notices the differences. They are clear on Bucky’s face in contrast to when he had been here last. His eyes are more tired, his mouth tense. His hair was slightly longer. But, there is also a new gleam in his eye. Pride, maybe. Or, perhaps, relief.

Steve takes Bucky’s hand into his. “How long?”

Bucky winces.

“Please,” Steve’s voice pleads. “Please, I have to know.”

Bucky looks away, expression downcast. “Three years.”

Steve’s mouth gapes. That was not the answer he had been expecting.

“Bucky, please tell me you’re lying.” At this point, Steve almost sounds like he’s begging. A tear slips from his eye, quickly followed by another, and panic begins to swell in his chest. In contrast, Bucky already looks guarded. He looks afraid, looking for wrath to come from Steve that he would never get. “Bucky, you were supposed to grow old. Live a life, be happy, grow a family. Please tell me it hasn’t only been three years, tell me you didn’t die just for me.”

“Got a pretty big ego there, Stevie,” It’s said easily, the tone light. “Thinking my only reason to die was just to see you again.”

There is a clear unspoken message in those words.

“What happened, Buck?” Steve’s voice is cautious, afraid of the reply he is sure he will get. “Please tell me why you came so _quickly_.”

Bucky sighs once more, diverting his eyes from Steve. “I had to, Steve. You gotta know, there wasn’t any other way.”

Steve’s stomach drops. 

“It was the last base we had to destroy. We had done so much research to find all of them, and we hunted down _every_ member. We didn’t just cut off their heads, we cauterized the wounds so they couldn’t even think of growing back.” Bucky swallows, tensing slightly. Steve squeezes tighter, still holding Bucky’s hands in his. “They had children there, Steve.”

Images flashed through Steve’s mind then. Images of Zaynab and Isai. Flashes of every child’s soul Steve had guided, afraid and confused and alone.

“We had to get them out, but there wasn’t any time. There wasn’t any other way.” Bucky finally looks up, staring directly into Steve’s eyes. The determination, the depth of emotion there, sent a chill down Steve’s spine. There was no question that Bucky had seen terrible things in those three years, despite the briefness of that time. “I knew I had to. If anyone had to die, to stop Hydra and save those kids… If anyone had to sacrifice themselves, then it had to be me. I had to, Steve. I had to wipe the red from my ledger.”

There was a weight to those words that Steve didn’t understand, a hidden message he wasn’t privy to. He distantly wondered about the years of Bucky’s life he didn’t get to see. Steve holds eye contact. Bucky’s eyes holding no lies. He believes him.

“So, this is it?” Steve asks breathlessly.

Bucky grins, face full of nervousness and excitement. “Ever wonder what your afterlife would be like, Stevie?”

“Don’t gotta,” Steve smiles affectionately, taking in Bucky’s soft hair and gentle smile and crinkled eyes. “I got my perfect afterlife right in front of me.”

Bucky slugs him in the shoulder and Steve cackles. “You punk, what a cheesy line.”

“You know I had to,” Steve grins, unashamed. “Plus, it’s the truth.”

Bucky snorts. “So, how does this work?”

Steve has helped many people get to their afterlife. He’s walked this path many times, from one light to another. Some people have a longer path than others, needing guidance for every step. Some barely have to open the door.

Older people walk with a type of confidence, knowing that they have made it this far and are ready for whatever faces them. Children walk with slight hesitancy, revealing both curiosity and eagerness hidden in their timidness.

Steve had paid attention.

He watched when people went through the light. There was this… expression they got on their face. It was a mix of relief and pure joy. Sometimes people relaxed immediately, comfortableness leaking into their expressions. Others had surprise crossed over their face. Others just looked relieved.

He had forgotten that, eventually, he would cross over himself one day. He had been so dutiful, so focused, he had ignored that someday he would stand where they stood.

Steve wishes he knew what his face looks like now, standing there with Bucky.

Bucky looks…

Determined. Confident. _Fearless_.

Steve grasps Bucky’s hand tighter, leaning into one more kiss. He pulls back with what he is sure is a dopey smile on his face. Turning away, yet keeping his tight grip on Bucky, he pulls them along to their old front door. Standing before it, the door’s edges glow with an ethereal light, like it’s bursting through the cracks from the other side.

How many times have they walked through this doorway? How many times had they left in the same way? How many times had they ignored the details, expecting to be back in only a few hours time?

Steve asks himself these questions as he looks at the door. He takes in every detail. The scratch from when they were moving the dresser in. The exact shade of maple wood and varnish. The nails that had rusted on the hinges. He would never see it again.

When Steve has finally looked his fill, he gives one more brief glance to the room behind him. He doesn’t want to forget a single detail. When he turns forward once more, Bucky squeezes his hand. They look at one another and take a deep breath before turning back once more. Finally, Steve reaches his hand out.

Steve turns the handle and they step through the door.

* * *

Steve wasn’t expecting heaven to be so… disappointing.

It’s a simple apartment, barely any decorations on the wall. There are a simple gray couch and a matching black armchair next to it. There is some sort of reflective black screen displayed on the wall, bookshelves surrounding it. To his left, there is a hallway that leads to multiple doors. On his right is what looks like a kitchen. However, it’s more elaborate than anything Steve could have even dreamed of in the ’30s.

Looking out of the window, though, reveals a vast cityscape, unlike anything Steve had ever seen in his time alive. Steve steps forward to get a better look. Buildings tower above the ground. Wherever they are, they are higher up from the ground than Steve ever thought was humanly possible. Different shaped blobs move on the ground, miles below him it feels like. Further, though, the sun sets across the skyline. The colors bleed into one another, the shades deeper and more vibrant than anything he’s ever experienced. Steve wants to paint it, with the fancy paints he got to borrow once in art school.

Huh, maybe it’s not so disappointing after all.

Bucky hasn’t moved at all since they appeared, frozen in place. When Steve looks up, he finally notices the panic on Bucky’s face. Steve is quick to dart back to Bucky’s side, concern filling his chest and drowning his lungs.

“Bucky? Buck, what’s wrong?”

Bucky’s hands search desperately for Steve. Once he has Steve’s hand in his own once more he begins to turn in a slow circle.

“Steve, please tell me I’m not dreaming. This isn’t a nightmare is it?” The tone of his voice has the same effect as pouring ice water over Steve’s head. With every word, panic creeps higher and higher into Bucky’s words. “Please, Steve, _please_. This can’t be a dream, it _can’t_. I can’t do it again, I can’t, please don’t make me--”

“Buck, it’s alright!” Steve finally speaks, trying his best to calm Bucky down. “It’s alright, take a deep breath.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, but he does take a breath. Steve takes that as a win.

“Why do you think you're dreaming, Buck?” Steve asks gently.

“We’re--” Bucky gulps another breath. “We’re in Stark Tower. We’re in my apartment in Stark Tower.”

Steve has _absolutely_ no idea where that is. Still slightly reeling, he tries to figure out what to do. Finally, Steve takes Bucky’s hand and places it directly on his chest.

“You feel me breathing, Buck?” Bucky gives a curt nod. “Good, breathe with me. I’m right here, this isn’t a dream. You can feel me. Feel how real I am under your fingers. Breathe with me.”

As he takes a couple more breaths, Bucky splays his fingers out over Steve’s chest. Like he’s trying to touch as much of Steve as he can reach. 

Finally, he nods. “Okay, I’m okay. I‘m alright now.”

“Good,” Steve breaths out. “Now, let’s figure out what the fuck is going on.”

“If I may interrupt?” A hesitant voice intervenes. Steve jumps and looks around before realizing there is no one else there.

“What the fuck?” He questions, inspecting the room suspiciously.

“It's Jarvis,” Bucky says gently. That also means nothing to Steve.

“Hello Bucky,” the voice speaks, sounding fond despite its robotic tone. Steve distantly notes that it sounds British. “If you will, there seems to be a note addressed to Steven Grant Rogers sitting on the coffee table. Maybe that would prove helpful in clearing up any confusion.”

“Thanks, Jarvis,” Bucky says quietly, making his way deeper into the room towards the coffee table. Then, he makes his way back with a paper in his hand, squinting at the page. “He’s right, it’s addressed to you, Steve.”

“What is _happening_?” Steve grumbles, taking the page from Bucky’s hand. Bucky shrugs, seemingly just as confused as Steve is.

The note is indeed addressed to Steve.

  
_Steven Grant Rogers,_

_I have spoken to many people since my creation, and you are still by far the oddest I can say I’ve had the pleasure of acquainting myself with. What a strange soul you have. You remind me of a couple of good soldiers I met. You are not simply a good soldier, though, but instead a good man. While there are many who would give up nearly anything for those they love, there have been none before you that were willing to give up both their life_ and _their afterlife. I am not an easy one to impress, Steven, so you should not take it lightly when I say you impressed me._

_I have watched you and your beloved. What a tragic story you tell, one full of sorrow and pain and loneliness. How can both halves be so willing to sacrifice with nothing expected in return? I have never been in love, as I have never been human. Therefore, I don’t believe I will ever be capable of understanding how deeply you must care for one another._

_I have learned much from you Steven, and knowledge is a gift. Therefore, I would like to give you a gift as well. You, Steven Grant Rogers, as well as your beloved, James Buchanan Barnes, both gave up a lifetime. In exchange, I would like to give you that lifetime back, starting where James died on Earth. During this lifetime, you are free to do as you please and live a happy life together. Thankfully, the future is much more accepting of your relationship. _

_I cannot promise it will be easy nor can I say that every moment will be a good one. However, I_ can _promise that it will be a full life. I will not take you or your beloved until it is_ truly _your time. Though I cannot tell you when it will be, rest assured that there will be many decades to live through together. I also promise to take you together so one is not without the other. As an added bonus, Steven, I have also healed you of all of your illnesses from your previous life and made your body healthy and strong._

_Do not take these gifts lightly, Steven. You have been given something no one else has ever received. I give you this not only because of gratitude but also because you have more to do._

_I will not forget you, Steven and James. I will not forget how you have impacted me or others around you, and the love that pushed you forward and through it. Thank you for the lessons and for giving me all that your souls had to give. Never forget: You are a good man._

_Sincerely,_  
_Death_

  
Steve looks up, once more catching sight of the sun setting in the distance. It’s almost poetic. He takes it in, breathing anew.

Then he looks at Bucky, studying his face like a piece of art. There is softness and affection and _love_ there. No, it’s not their afterlife. It is so much more.

**Author's Note:**

> Below are more in-depth descriptions of some of the tags I warned for. Again, if reading this is detrimental to your mental health, please keep your self safe and click out. That being said:
> 
> Homophobic / Anti-Semitic Language - There is a scene entirely in italics in which Steve remembers dying. In it there is a group of men harassing Bucky and Steve. They use slurs including faggot and fairy. They also comment about Bucky being Jewish, encouraging and supporting Hitler's hate speech. They also make comments supporting the murder of Jewish/gay people. Steve stands up for Bucky, telling him to run and get help. While Bucky is getting the police the men beat Steve to death (with no explicit details given). When Bucky makes it back, Steve is dying and all they have time for is to tell each that they love one another. The line directly before this scene says, “Suddenly, it comes flooding back.” There are no other uses of words like this before or after this flashback.
> 
> Suicidal Ideation / Thoughts - While he never explicitly says it, Bucky talks about being suicidal after Steve was gone. He also talks about going to a neighborhood bully to get beat to death, that way his mom doesn’t have to know he was trying to get himself killed. It is also heavily implied that Bucky attempted suicide multiple times to see Steve again. There are no explicit details about these attempts, and there are no explicit comments about the attempts (except about how alone Bucky felt without Steve and how he couldn't keep fighting).
> 
> If I missed a tag or should warn for anything else, leave a comment (please don't be mean) and I will fix it as soon as possible. Please be gentle, this is my first time posting anything for this ship.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
